There's nothing particularly offensive about this later effort in Stewart Granger's career. Basil Dearden directs with mature competence, Bernard Miles provides his usual solid support, and the plot carries a viewer along without having to drag him by the heels. If Haya Harareet is no more than a blandly attractive figure as Granger's wife, well, so what? Granger is a well-off businessman who has one of those shameful secrets in his past that make blackmail profitable. The extortionist is Granger's dentist. I never did like dentists anyway. They're always smiling and saying things like, "Turn this way a little," and then they hurt you even though you've never done them any harm. To top it off, you have to pay them.
Anyway, this weedy little surgeon is visited one night by a mysterious masked man who instructs him at gun point to knock Granger out with gas, inject him with a fast-acting barbiturate, and squeeze out of him the combination to the office safe, meanwhile making impressions of the office keys. The whining little creep complies with a combination of fear and greed.
Evidently the masked man has set up a frame because as the Superintendent, Bernard Miles, investigates the crime the evidence begins to pile up against Granger himself. Granger escapes the grasp of the police and most of the film is taken up with his pursuit of the mysterious man in the mask.
There's a twist at the end. The prognosis is problematic but it seems that just desserts will be served, followed, one hopes, by a postprandial snort of nitrous oxide.
Granger had a long career beginning in Britain in a few classy productions before moving to MGM around 1950 to become a kind of latter-day Errol Flynn. He was handsome enough. His voice was a resonant baritone. And he looked good in period wardrobe. But he was more than dismissive of his own career, downright bitter at times. The curious thing is that, as he aged, he STILL looked good in a stereotypical way. He went gray at the temples and seemed never less than vigorous, sometimes distinguished, but the trajectory of his fame followed a familiar downward arc. But if he'd never made a movie other than, say, "Scaramouche" or one or two others, he'd be worth at least a footnote.
I can't say too much for this particular movie. It's strictly routine. It's the sort of thing that Hollywood was grinding out as B features during the 1930s -- mysterious masked man prompts scared dentist into crime and frames hero. Should someone throw open a door and find a ransacked apartment, the musical score goes, "Ta-DAHHH!" All familiar stuff. But, as I say, it's in no way offensive. It's just that there's nothing very original about any of its properties. With a little tweaking it could have been an inexpensive Charlie Chan mystery.
Anyway, this weedy little surgeon is visited one night by a mysterious masked man who instructs him at gun point to knock Granger out with gas, inject him with a fast-acting barbiturate, and squeeze out of him the combination to the office safe, meanwhile making impressions of the office keys. The whining little creep complies with a combination of fear and greed.
Evidently the masked man has set up a frame because as the Superintendent, Bernard Miles, investigates the crime the evidence begins to pile up against Granger himself. Granger escapes the grasp of the police and most of the film is taken up with his pursuit of the mysterious man in the mask.
There's a twist at the end. The prognosis is problematic but it seems that just desserts will be served, followed, one hopes, by a postprandial snort of nitrous oxide.
Granger had a long career beginning in Britain in a few classy productions before moving to MGM around 1950 to become a kind of latter-day Errol Flynn. He was handsome enough. His voice was a resonant baritone. And he looked good in period wardrobe. But he was more than dismissive of his own career, downright bitter at times. The curious thing is that, as he aged, he STILL looked good in a stereotypical way. He went gray at the temples and seemed never less than vigorous, sometimes distinguished, but the trajectory of his fame followed a familiar downward arc. But if he'd never made a movie other than, say, "Scaramouche" or one or two others, he'd be worth at least a footnote.
I can't say too much for this particular movie. It's strictly routine. It's the sort of thing that Hollywood was grinding out as B features during the 1930s -- mysterious masked man prompts scared dentist into crime and frames hero. Should someone throw open a door and find a ransacked apartment, the musical score goes, "Ta-DAHHH!" All familiar stuff. But, as I say, it's in no way offensive. It's just that there's nothing very original about any of its properties. With a little tweaking it could have been an inexpensive Charlie Chan mystery.